A wooden hoop with scraps of inherited quilting cotton layered and stretched between it sits on the end of the sofa. Picking it up to inspect the project, you see an image of a crying eye has been sketched onto the fabric using a heat-erasable pen. The small, gifted makeup bag you stash as an on the go embroidery kit sits next to the hoop. You do not know for certain why this is the medium you landed on, but between generations of women in your family encouraging you to paint or sew it feels like a nice compromise. Decades ago another inhabitant of the house might have sat by the window on her own couch, pricking her finger until she drew blood just like you will. It is impossible to know this now. You place the work in progress back down and continue unpacking.